Home
by Lucibell
Summary: In which Winry tells Ed to leave. semi-AU, post Promised Day, Brotherhood, slight spoilers


Disclaimer: _Fullmetal Alchemist_ and all its affiliated characters, places, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa.

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"You know what," a wrench, gathered up in slender fingers that curled into an equally slender, lithe arm, extends slightly behind her, "there's the door," she says.

His fists clench at his sides, his silhouette grows rigid, as tall as he can extend himself. "_Excuse me?_"

Al, cowering in a corner of the room, his body still frail and fragile from the malnutrition on the other side of the Gate, flinches at the sound of his brother's voice. Winry, on the other hand, does not. She remains focused on the task at hand, her arm curling back around, the wrench finding its niche around the bolt in the indefinite automail limb on the workbench in front of her.

"You heard me," she says. "Nobody's made you stay." Her voice is strangely, eerily calm. Al's never seen her react to Ed this way. She's normally all screams and shouts and flying limbs and bashing heads in. This Winry… He didn't like very much. The seriousness, the coldness in their voices made Al's eyes dart to the door in question. He gulps.

Ed's eyes narrow, glaring at Winry's back. "Al…" he says.

Al needs no other encouragement. He bolts for the door, shutting it solidly behind him as he makes his way toward the stairs. He feels like a nap anyway…

Back in the workshop Ed's hands remain clenched and Winry's continue working. She says nothing to him. Ed continues to glare at the back of her head, knowing that he cannot leave the situation as it stands, but also aware that he can't fly off the handle like normal. This is serious, _this_ has the potential to create a rift uncrossable. He knows he has to tread carefully here.

He takes a step forward. "Winry."

He can't see it, but she frowns. "What?" she says.

Ed's fingernails create crescent shaped red welts in his palms where he tightens his fists as hard as he can, for fear of breaking something. He takes a deep breath, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through parted lips. "Will you please look at me?" he says. He's surprised by how calm he is, compared to the heat in his chest.

Winry sighs, laying the wrench carefully to the right of the automail, and turns slowly to face him, chair swiveling underneath her. She stares at him, her face blank, her eyes void of any emotion, her hair mussed beneath the bandana that holds back her bangs. She waits.

Ed takes another deep breath and forces himself to unclench his fist, to relax his posture. He draws another chair toward him, settling himself in it as slowly, gently as possible. The chair is the wrong way, so he settles his arms on the back of it, leaning his chin on them and breathing out once more through his nose. "Winry," he says again.

She crosses her arms over her chest, hooks one leg over the other. "Ed."

He takes the time to study her, _really_ look at her. Even since they'd come home after the Promised Day, he hadn't made much time for her, aside from the standard tune-ups for his leg. He was distracted by memories, nightmares, and an emptiness where his alchemic ability used to be.

Ed hates to admit it, to even think it to himself, but Winry, as she sits before him, looks haggard. There are faint shadows under her eyes, eyes that are dull with what he recognizes as the tell-tale sheen of burnout. If he'd never seen that glaze in his own eyes countless times before, he'd be damned. He knew that look well.

Her cheeks are sallow, the bones of her face protruding more than he remembers. He doesn't direct his gaze anywhere but her face, but he is aware that her entire body is thinner, bonier, and he wonders that he hasn't noticed before. She is tired, oh, so tired, and he feels helpless to save her.

Ed thinks for a moment that she should look healthier, _be_ healthier, now that he and Al have returned and she has no reason for worry anymore, but then he recognizes it for his trademark arrogance. She knows full well his penchant for wanderlust, knows well that he never was able to sit still for very long, expects that he never will. He isn't surprised that the barest mention of his eventually traveling hadn't surprised her, but he is surprised as the resignation with which she'd simply told him to _get out_.

They sit like that for several minutes, just staring at one another. He can't read her emotions – she's learned well to hide them, to his delight and dismay – and he's unsure of what exactly to say in this very moment.

"Winry…" he murmurs.

She rolls her eyes. "Ed, we've established that my name is Winry."

He blinks at her attempt at humor. He recognizes that she doesn't want to fight any more than he does. His shoulders sag as he lays his forehead on his arms. After a short moment he looks back up at her. "What's this all about, Winry?"

He can see her body tense more. "Nothing," she says. "I knew you'd leave eventually."

Ed tilts his head to one side, frowning. "Okay," he says, probing. She offers no more information and he sighs, burying his face in his hands. "Dammit, woman, normally you're vehement in making me understand what I've done wrong," he looks back up at her. His voice softens, the expression in his eyes following suit. "Don't leave me in the dark now."

Winry turns her face from him, a blush staining her cheeks and nose, finally bringing color to her pallid face. He waits patiently, a thing he didn't know he was capable of in the first place. She scowls at the floor.

All of a sudden it dawns on him and his eyes widen, flashing in the low lamplight of the room. He realizes now what it is that has been missing from her eyes, what her voice has been lacking in the weeks since he and his brother returned, what was completely extinguished the moment he mentioned leaving again, the reason she's absolutely void of any emotion whatsoever:

Winry has no more _hope._

The entire time he and Al had been out in the world, pursuing the means to restore what had been lost, she had maintained hope in them, for them, that they would come home one day, healed, for good. When they'd finally come home that particular hope had been fulfilled, but something still lingered, hovered in the background where he was barely aware of it, but aware nonetheless. She'd been holding out for him, he knew; he wasn't blind, he wasn't stupid. Ed knows that Winry has never been on a date – not for lack of trying on the part of other men – that she has never looked twice at any man near her age. He knows that she reserves certain things for him, a particular softness in her voice, her touch, her expression, that no other person is privy to. He knows she holds him in high esteem, knows, even, that she loves him. He knows that she hopes that one day he would notice her, man up and do something about it.

What _she _didn't know was that he'd noticed her long ago, deemed her more than worthy of a half-assed, long-distance hullaballoo that he couldn't make any promises for. He'd waited, agonizingly so, to say anything to her because he wasn't a fortune teller and he couldn't have promised her a future. He still didn't know that he could, but he recognized that since they'd come home, been home for weeks, she'd begun to hope that he _would_.

Ed felt so damned _stupid_.

Instead of saying her name again, for which he is certain she will inflict some sort of bodily harm, Ed rises from his seat and slowly closes the distance between them, keeling before her, leaning to try to catch her eye, and prying her hands from where they hug her sides. He brushes her knuckles with his thumbs, caresses her palms with his fingers, and stares at her face, waiting for her to look at him. When she finally does, Ed can see familiar tears clinging to Winry's eyelids. He leans down to brush his lips over the back of one of her hands, never looking away from her. She relaxes a little and turns to fully face him. Ed stares at her a moment more.

"Winry, I'm sorry," he says.

Her body crumples as the tears free themselves from her lashes, sliding down her cheeks to land on her arms. He draws her toward him, down onto the floor, folding her into himself. She buries her head in his chest and sobs, and for once he doesn't try to shush her. He hates it when she cries, but this is comfortable, necessary. He feels an unfamiliar prickle in his own eyes and sniffs to hold it back. He wraps his arms around her, strong hands pressing and caressing her back as she cries, her hands clutching the back of his shirt. Ed says nothing as she sobs, only rocks her back and forth, squeezes her as tight as he can to his chest, and remains unashamed when his own tears trickle onto her shoulder.

"I'm so sorry," he says again.

Slowly Winry grows quiet and draws back enough to look at him. If she is surprised at seeing tears on his face, she doesn't show it. For that he is grateful.

He doesn't give her a chance to speak; if he doesn't say this now he may not get the nerve ever again.

"I'm sorry that I left you alone so much. I'm sorry that I never called. I'm sorry that the only visits you got were automail related. I'm sorry that I was irresponsible and reckless. I'm sorry that I made you worry…" for a moment he trails off and she thinks he is finished. She opens her mouth to respond and he quickly continues, "I'm sorry that I held you at such a distance, that I never told you how I really feel about you. I'm sorry that I couldn't promise you anything, that I'm not sure I can promise anything now, that I'm so unsure of myself. I'm sorry that the most arrogant man you know, who can call his superior officer a bastard on a regular basis without fear of demotion, has such a hard time telling you the truth.

"I'm sorry that I've never told you that I love you."

Her hands are still clenched around the back of his shirt, but Ed is certain that Winry has stopped breathing. He leans forward and brushes his lips against her forehead, his face flooding with heat. "I love you, Winry," he whispers.

Ed leans back to find Winry shaking her head. He frowns. "But you're leaving," she says.

He tilts his head to one side, reaching up to cup her face with his newly restored hand, reveling at the sensitivity of it, at how warm she is against his palm. "Not for a long time," he says. "Al and I need time to rest, Winry. We were just letting you know what we were thinking, keeping you in the loop." It was something they'd vowed to do once their journey was over: keep Winry informed. She'd been ignored far too long. It wasn't fair to maintain such distance with your childhood friend.

Winry is still shaking her head. "But when are you…?"

He brushes some hair from her eyes, tugs the bandana out of her hair, letting her bangs tumble into her face. He brushes that from her eyes, too. "Not for a couple of years, at least," he says. "The journey might take a while, though, about a year." Ed sees the tears well up in her eyes again and he cups her face with both hands this time, drawing his face closer to hers, holding her gaze. "I don't intend to stay gone, Winry. I can't promise that I'll always be here, but I can promise that I'll always do my best to come back, to be here more often than not, from here on out."

She releases her hold on his shirt and curls her fingers around his wrists. "Edward…"

Ed's eyes flutter closed at the softness of her voice, raspy from crying. He leans closer still, his nose barely touching hers. He can taste her breath, feel the heat of it on his lips. "Winry," he murmurs, "I promise to come home." He closes the distance between them, capturing her lips in his own.

To say it is like flying is too cliché for Ed, but he can think of no other description for the weightlessness in his head. He presses harder, wrapping his arms around her shoulders as Winry grips his collar, fingers digging into the hollows above his collarbone. He hasn't actually thought about how much he's grown until he realizes just how much he dwarfs her, how small she feels against him. Her lips move in a smooth rhythm against his and he follows her lead. Eventually, reluctantly, he pulls away, breathing deep the smell of her.

He opens his eyes to meet her gaze, wide and bright, a brilliant improvement from the dead look she gave him earlier. "Ed," she says. "I overreacted, I'm sorry."

He brushes his nose against hers. "Shh," he says. "It's alright. You had every right to react the way you did." She starts to respond and he kisses her again, lightly, quickly. "Winry, hush," he says firmly. "You need sleep right now more than anything. You're exhausted."

Winry's face flushes, her pout sheepish. He smirks at her. "I'll tuck you in," he says. She nods, tucking her head in the crook between his jaw and shoulder as he stands and carries her out of the workshop, turning out the light on his way out. Late afternoon sunlight filters through the windows in the den as he carries her through, ignoring Pinako's knowing gaze as she watches him carry her granddaughter up the stairs. She doesn't comment when, a few minutes later, he returns down the stairs alone, striding into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

When Al emerges from his nap an hour later he finds his brother sitting at the kitchen table, an alkahestry text open in front of him, notes splayed out beneath the mug of black coffee. He lays a hand on Ed's shoulder and Ed turns to look at him, pen hanging from between his teeth. "Everything alright?" Al asks.

Ed nods, smiling. "Yeah," he says. "We're fine."

Al returns the nod, moving to the cabinet for a mug of his own. "Where's Winry?"

"Asleep."

As Al pours coffee for himself he sighs in relief. "Good," he says, "she needs it."

Ed stares pensively at his brother. "No," he says, "she _deserves_ it, after all I've put her through."

Al looks up at him. "After all _we've_ put her through, Brother."

Ed nods in assent. "Sure."

They stare at each other a moment more before Al moseys into the den to sit, talking lazily with Pinako as Ed remains focused on his notes.

Winry sleeps throughout the night and past lunchtime the next day, but when she wakes and wanders into the kitchen, Ed is pleased to see that the shadows are gone and her color has returned. He draws her into his arms, burying his nose in her neck. "Good morning," he murmurs.

She smiles. "You idiot," she says, "it's way past morning." He pulls back to look at her, returning her grin.

"Yeah…" he sighs. "It's so good to be home," he says before dipping his head to kiss her, uncaring that Pinako, Al and Den are all watching them. He pulls back to see her blushing prettily.

He knows then that his heart won't let him break his promise from the day before. She is his home, and he will always, _always_ come back to her.


End file.
